Martial Law 2: Father's Lesson


by Usmcson

"Grandpa!" I ran to the side of the train to help with his bags.

Father was nervous; Mama was nervous; I was thrilled! My grandfather, Father's father, would be staying with us over the next two weeks. He always told the best stories about generals and guns, training and tanks. His life in the U. S. Marine Corps (USMC) came to an end when he retired, but his memories made Father's administrative work in the USMC seem staid and unnecessary.

"Hoo-rah, boy," called Grandpa, with his raspy, pipe-smoker's voice. We hugged only briefly, as I breathed in deep to smell the pungent tobacco, before I snapped to and saluted. A reflex from years back when, as a lil' tyke, Grandpa taught me how. He returned the salute, a mere shadow of former glory when he used to wear his uniform - with a row of shiny brass buttons and a rainbow of patches, pins, and medals. But the magic was gone. The light in his eyes seemed faded. The stare, distant and unfocused.

My parents joined Grandpa and me on the train platform. Father also saluted, and Mama began her endless chatter. It's one of the sure signs she's tense; the other sign is her dropping and breaking dishes and glasses at every meal time. (I remember thinking, "After Grandpa leaves, we'll have to visit the BX for replacements.")

The three adults headed toward the car as I grabbed a hold of Grandpa's bags - two olive drab duffle sacks that smelled like a mixture of history and fear, dust and sweat. I could tell he brought gifts cause one bag near toppled me over from the shifting weight of some hollow metal objects that clanked. His bags were also stuffed. He packed his warm clothes cause our Fairfax winters were more brisk than in Florida.

The whole drive home to the cookie-cutter base - as it looks like dozens of other U. S. military installations across the country and around the world - was dominated by Mama's chatter. Her speech is melodious, like the ringing of church bells welcoming prince and pauper alike on a misty Sunday morning. The land is stark, with alternating patches of dirt and snow, leaf-less trees and evergreens. Father has the oldies station on the radio, in the background, in Grandpa's honor.

"So," Grandpa said to me, interrupting Mama, "what are you up to in school?"

"Eleventh grade. Learning all sorts of things, but best is that I'm going out for football!"

"Oh," Mama exhaled, exasperated. "If only the boy would spend half the time he talks about and plays football on his homework and studies. He might not find himself in detention half as much time either."

"Mama!" I was trying in school as she knows. Defending myself, I insisted, "My grades have come up, and I've not gotten a failing grade all year. That's seven months!"

Grandpa chuckled, a rare occasion of which I took a mental picture so I would remember his good side as well as I know his less-than-peachy side. (Yes, he's a native of Georgia. And, a few summers growing up, he worked on his family's peach orchard.)

"Well boy, sounds like you and your Mama get along like me and my Mama before. She was always on my back 'bout school and I was always on the defense. May it's the reason I was so good on defense for my high school football team!" More laughing. Clearly, Father and Mama had met the lady, but I hadn't.

"You keepin' out of trouble? Clean behind the ears? No smokin', drinkin' or drugs . . . right?"

"Yes Sir. I'm out of trouble more than I'm in it."

We arrived home. Grandpa settled in my bedroom and distributed gifts, as I set up a fold-away cot in the family room. The family room served tripled duty during his twice-a-year stays: the place for TV watching and game playing, my sleeping quarter, and my dining area when Mama prepared an adult-only dinner. That's when Father, Mama and Grandpa talked about grown-up stuff, especially money. (Father always said, when I was just a kid until I left home at age 18, "Children should hear, see and speak no evil by which I mean, booze, money and _s_e_x_.")

For Mama, whom Grandpa called his "peach blossom," he brought a set of three cast iron pots that belongs to Grams. They were jet black and well-seasoned. Mama smiled, knowing he meant well, though a gift of pots just trapped her in the kitchen. I received a book of football statistics, which made Mama wince, as she didn't want me "wasting" time on sports. Father's gift was given privately, so neither Mama nor I knew what it was and why Grandpa was being so secretive.

That first week passed uneventfully. Grandpa seemed to sleep a bit more than he did in the past, but was more sociable. As a special treat, one evening after supper and with Father's permission, Grandpa braved being a passenger while I drove us to the off-base grocery for some goodies. I was beaming with pride, having gotten my driver's license and about to take my Grandpa on a drive!

Right after pulling out of the driveway, he said something that had my heart pounding, my palms sweaty, and took my breath away: "While making up my bed this morning, I found those two magazines wedged under your mattress. Is there something you want to talk 'bout, boy?"

Gulping hard, knowing he was referring to a Playboy and a Playgirl, I just said, "No Sir."

"You know, I've had suspicions for some time, cause you're a handsome, healthy lad of 16 without a girl."

I remained silent, wishing the conversation would end. But he continued, "I'll have to tell your folks about this."

Trying to keep my gaze steady on the road, I pleaded, "Please don't, Grandpa! Father will be real angry . . ." I allowed my statement to trail off, which communicated my worst fear: Father's anger would intensify whatever discipline was deemed appropriate.

"I just mean the girlie magazine. I care 'bout you too much to see the other magazine come to light." Grandpa understood about homophobia in The South. An audible sigh of relief from me.

"You're not off the hook. Your daddy's gonna' want to strap your hide raw anyway; however, I'm gonna' to deal with you as your daddy watches, so he can learn how to manage you wiser. After all, a boy our age shouldn't be in possession of such trash." Sullen, I could only agree.

When we returned home, Grandpa sent me to my bedroom - now commandeered by him - to await his return with Father in tow. Clearly, he'd taken the Playboy as "proof" and discreetly disposed of the Playgirl. Listening at the closed door, I couldn't hear what words were exchanged, but could tell mama was upset and Father was madder than a bull with balls tied tight. Next thing I hear was thumping of footsteps up the staircase, as Grandpa exclaimed, "You'll learn a thing or two 'bout dealing with that unruly son of yours."

As the door opened, Father responded as he must have when he was my age, "Yes Sir."

Three generations in one place and one time. There was a tension, thick and hard to take, as Grandpa was exerting his control over Father, and both were exerting their control over me. But I stood to meet my punishment head on, without fear.

Father spoke, Son, your Mama and I are disappointed in you. We know weve raised you better than that, to know such magazines are not appropriate for a 16 year old boy. Yes, youve got hormones like other boys . . . but we expect you to control yourself.

My bold defiance of standing against the tide of grand-fatherly and fatherly discipline was fading slowly, and I felt increasingly powerless. Grandpa took over where Father left off, So, young man, Im going to give you a strapping to remember. He revealed the strop, used by him on Father, and by Father on me. And your daddys going to watch and learn improved techniques for corporal punishment in gaining your attention and obedience. (Naturally, my Father blushed, embarrassed to have his authority usurped in his household. But hed never dare talk back to his father.)

To me, Grandpa said, Boy, its time for your punishment to commence. Strip. I started removing my clothes, one article at a time, until I stood before them naked.

My bold defiance was totally shattered, replaced by fear of the impending storm of blows.

Get that wooden chair and lean over the back. I followed the orders.

Good, now grab the edge of the seat. I did.

Good. And boy, youre going to count each blow.

Yes Sir.

Good. Now were ready.

I heard a few practice swings, and felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Then, without a clear view of Grandpas position and movement, I felt a searing slash across my butt. (Though I knew Father could give one hell of a strapping, Grandpa proved he was no amateur. Though Im my Fathers only child and son, Grandpa raised six children, four were boys!)

I steeled myself, expecting an endless barrage, but there was an unbearable pause of five seconds before the next blow, then five seconds and a blow, then five seconds and a blow. Grandpa actually counted out loud. I, counted each blow; Grandpa counted to five before each swing. Thwack . . . thwack . . . thwack . . . thwack . . . thwack.

After my count of twenty, Grandpa paused and said to Father, You see, you must remain in control which means taking your time. Count out loud, like Im doing. It makes the boy tense up which makes the strapping hurt more. But hes warmed up and needs more . . .

THWACK . . . THWACK . . . THWACK . . . THWACK . . . THWACK . . . another fifteen. I had counted to forty. This round was harder than the previous twenty, and my eyes were really tearing up despite my best efforts to keep myself as under control as was Grandpa.

Now, this next round will focus on the sit spot, Grandpa explained to Father. Each of the next twenty blows started with s w o o s h, impacted with a deep burn, and resulted in a painful tingle and my nearly-buckling legs. And as I counted . . . 42 . . . 43 . . . 44 . . . up to 60, Grandpa counted 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 . . . 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 . . . 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Thankfully, Grandpa stopped.

By that point, my butt was on fire. The tears were dripping from my eyes which were clenched shut, like raindrops on the wooden chair. My hands were clamped to the seats edge, making my fingers whiter than white. My legs were rubbery, as the back of the chair supported nearly my full weight. But I could concentrate only on the pain in my ass . . . Grandpa.

He said to Father, Youll remember this bit. Then, to me, Now reach around and spread your cheeks, boy. The count starts at 61. I spread them wide, all the while praying for a quick end.

The next blow made me jump just about out of my skin. A vertical strike, from up to down, landing squarely on my asshole – a hotbed of nerves that spread the pain throughout the whole of my body. I cant even count 61 as Im supposed to.

As I flailed blindly with eyes still closed, Father grabbed me and held me in position, bent over the back of the chair. My head was locked between his scissor legs, as Grandpa continued the assault on my rosebud. 62, I screamed . . . 63, I screamed . . . 64 . . . and so on, to 80.

The thighs of Fathers pants were soaked with my spittle, my tears, my dripping nose. He breathed deeply, calling upon all his physical strength to keep me in place. Likewise, every breath I took was a heaving, like trying to push a boulder off my collapsing chest. Not a sound from Grandpa, who was stilled by incredible self-control.

And, finally, the last series of twenty, Grandpa said. Youll give these, with your new gift, he said to Father, as they swapped places. Grandpa secured my head between his legs as Father moved behind me. But what gift . . . ?

WHACK! It dawned on me that Father was using an unforgivably unyielding wooden paddle . . . not at all like the strop which was of flexible, well-used leather.

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! And more.

I had ceased counting out loud, simultaneously frozen in the pain, the burn, the tingling – the physical and psychological numbness – and my primal scream. Naturally, I wept that night . . . and remained aloof, an unsociable hermit, until my Grandfathers departure.

I had learned a lesson; not the intended lesson, Im sure. I learned that I had to be more careful in future about my inner impulses, my secrets. But Father had learned a lesson he relied upon every so often over the next few years, until my last strapping – at age 17 – just a couple of months shy of my 18th birthday . . . when I moved out.


More stories by Usmcson